


Meat Me in the Middle

by Carapatzin



Series: Of Noblemen and Wildmen [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Making bets, Modern AU, Romance, some sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:31:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5129471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carapatzin/pseuds/Carapatzin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hyped-up-on-something Hawke makes Finn Lavellan a bet: that he can't possibly "seduce" Dorian (who's already in a relationship with him, mind you) by using bad puns.</p><p>Challenge accepted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meat Me in the Middle

**Author's Note:**

> It seems to be a trend that Varric is always involved in Finn's silly decisions. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Possibly important note: this is in a Modern AU in which the main characters across the 3 games live in the same area and know each other. Like one big happy family.

Finn Lavellan wrapped both hands around the warm mug of fresh cappuccino, leaning back in the cozy armchair with a sigh of contentment.  The smell of hot coffee steamed up from the mug and wafted around his face; he breathed in deeply several times, savoring the scent.

“Frosty,” Varric said, joining him and sitting on the loveseat across from him, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you ask for _coffee._ You’re usually an ale guy.”

“It’s eight in the morning, Varric,” Finn reminded him, looking about the local coffee shop.  It was a bustling hour of the day, exhausted workers from all around trying to get their morning dose of caffeine before heading into work.  Finn had spied Varric in here, writing, just as he’d gone to get his own leisurely morning coffee; naturally, he’d decided to pester the dwarf into conversation.

Not that Varric usually minded.

“Perfect time for mimosas,” River Hawke said, plopping down on the couch next to Varric and taking a sip of what smelled to Finn like hot chocolate.

“Shouldn’t you both be at work?” Varric asked, typing away at his computer, his keyboard clicking.

Finn shook his head.  “No work today.”

Hawke snorted.  “Work?  Varric, why would I ever work?  My _point_ in life is to fatally screw up things and laugh about it as I’m doing it.  Then justify the entire thing later with sarcasm, bad puns, and a cheesy smile.  It’s my _calling.”_

A couple of businessmen passed their seats with arms laden with coffee; both looked down and gave Hawke wrinkled noses before walking off and continuing on with their lives.

“I don’t see you screwing up anything at the moment, somehow,” Varric said, snickering, as he continued typing.  “Unless there’s poison in Finn’s coffee.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad way to go, dying in a warm coffee shop,” Finn said.  “Just tell Dorian to make sure there’s beer at my funeral.  Actually, a full bar would be great.  Shame I wouldn’t be able to attend.”

Hawke took another sip of hot chocolate, then peered over at Finn like she was masterminding some great and terrible evil.

Varric stopped typing.  “You’re about to be in deep shit, Frosty.”

“You know, Finn,” Hawke said, crossing one leg over the other, “you haven’t told me how you and Dorian are doing lately.”

“Good, as usual.”  Finn smiled nonchalantly and drank some more of his cappuccino, feeling it slip hot down his throat and warm up his insides.  “He’s got a half-day at work today, so he’ll be home earlier than normal.”

Hawke clicked her nails against her mug.  “And how’s your _love_ life?”

“…good?”

“Any new…positions lately?”

Finn nearly spat out his coffee.

“Andraste’s ass, Hawke,” Varric said, “you can’t just go around asking people if they’ve tried any new positions lately.”

“So says you.”  Hawke shrugged.  “I asked Zevran and he spent ten minutes describing it.  Then I asked Morrigan and she glared death at me for a full minute before reminding me her and Corvis’s private life was _private_ and walking away.  Iron Bull actually emailed me a bunch of website links so I could see for myself.  Oghren laughed and belched.  At least, I think it was a laugh.  Josephine looked like she wanted to die.  Cullen—”

Varric tilted his laptop’s screen down so he could cross his arms over his chest and look fully at Hawke.  “I’m almost ashamed to know you.”

“No you’re not.  But you interrupted me fiddling with Finn’s love life.”

“Oh, joy of joys,” Finn said.

Hawke gave him a contemplative look.  “How much do you like bets?”

“A lot.”  He and Dorian had made quite a few of them in the past.  Inconsequential ones, usually, but those were the most fun.  “Just don’t try to get me into another drinking contest.  Some memories don’t need to be relived.”

“Hmm…how about this.”  River tucked her thick black hair behind her ears.  “I’ll bet you that you _can’t_ seduce Dorian tonight.”

Finn chuckled.  “You’re going to lose that one.  All I have to do is sit on him.”

And Dorian had a decently high sex drive—something to do with his Tevinter heritage, Finn had always suspected—and was almost always up for anything.  He didn’t know why River would make a bet she’d immediately lose, but he wouldn’t question it.

“No, no, there are _rules.”_ She grinned widely.  “You have to incorporate a _liberal_ use of bad puns…and they have to involve common household objects.”

“For fuck’s sake— _Hawke.”_ Varric looked like he was trying to disapprove of her marginal insanity, but also trying to stifle his own laughter at the same time.  “You _know_ Sparkler gets all groany when there are shitty puns involved.  Let’s not actually try to ruin Frosty’s relationship?”

Finn lifted his coffee mug in an imaginary toast.  “I’ll take that bet.”

Varric scrubbed his own forehead, and Hawke lifted a fist in the air, nearly punching a passing businesswoman in the chin.

Still clutching the mug in one hand—and probably going to steal it, if he was being serious with himself—Finn braced the other hand on the chair’s arm, getting to his feet.  “Alright.  I’m off.  Wish me luck.”

“Isn’t Dorian at work?” Hawke asked.

Finn nodded.  “But now I have to head to the grocery store and buy everything I can possibly make a pun with.”

“Andraste guide your path, my friend,” Hawke said, settling deeper into the loveseat.

Varric just waved a farewell, then snickered quietly as he resumed typing.

* * *

Finn figured there was a good chance Dorian would actually set the apartment on fire once he hit him with his entire mental arsenal of puns.  He’d probably have to space them out over the course of the afternoon and evening, if he didn’t want to provoke the other mage to homicide.

He plopped on the couch in their apartment with a bowl of chips and turned on a pointless television show, waiting for Dorian to get home.

It didn’t take long; Finn must’ve spent more time perusing the grocery store than he’d previously thought.  About midway into the show the apartment door swung open—Finn didn’t have to look to know it was Dorian, even with the sitcom on the television a continuous drone in his ears.  He’d memorized the sound of Dorian’s footfalls long ago.

“Hello, _amatus,”_ Dorian greeted from behind the couch.  Warm hands found Finn’s ice-white hair and ruffled it a bit; then Dorian pressed a kiss to the top of Finn’s head.  “I can only begin to guess how much you missed me while I was away.”

Finn grinned, grabbed a cashew off the table, and swiveled around on the couch.  Then he presented it to Dorian, who raised an eyebrow and held his palm flat.

“Being without you drives me nuts,” Finn said, handing him the cashew.

Dorian stared down at the cashew in his palm for several seconds before sighing fondly and shaking his head.  “I don’t know what I expected.”

“At least it’s _true,_ though.  So there’s that.”  Finn was always excited to see Dorian, no matter how recently he’d seen him or how short any absence had been.  Varric had compared him to a dog on more than one occasion.  Not that he minded.  “So, since you’ve got the rest of the day off…what did you want to do today?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to going out and eating,” Dorian said, slinging his briefcase onto the couch with a heavy thump.  “Or having a drink.  Although I suppose that’s something we do quite often.”

“You want to get…” Finn reached into the space between the couch cushions and grabbed a can, holding it up, “…skintimate?”

Dorian gave him an incredulous look.

“Did you really?” he asked, glancing at the brand name on the can.  “Did you really buy an entire can of women’s shaving cream just to make that pun?”

“…possibly,” Finn said.  He had no other excuse; elves didn’t have enough body hair, if any, to ever justify shaving.

“Dear Maker, I’m starting to see a trend.”  Dorian rolled his eyes and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of the couch.  “How many puns are you going to chuck my way, exactly?  Should I anticipate losing my sanity and murdering you in a fit of fiery passion?”

“Isn’t that _always_ on the table?” Finn asked.

“It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long, isn’t it?” Dorian teased.  “You’re lucky my patience is just as extraordinary as the rest of me.”

“You like the attention and you _know_ it,” Finn said, grinning.

Hawke was going to owe him _big._

* * *

Finn had high hopes for his chances of success when Dorian asked if he’d like to join him while he showered.

Naturally, Finn joined him in the shower.  What kind of vapid moron refused an offer such as _that?_ Dorian looked damn good in his usual state—well-dressed, combed hair, aristocratically proper and confident—but _wet_ Dorian was a masterpiece.  The shower water drenched and tousled his hair just so, making it an even sleeker obsidian black, and the sight of water running in thick rivulets down his dark shoulders and chest made Finn drool enough to fill a small lake.

The only problem that usually arose was the difference in temperate; Dorian liked his showers boiling-lava-hot, and Finn liked them Frostback-mountain-cold.  Normally, they compromised and ended up slightly hotter than lukewarm.  Today, though, hoping to get into Dorian’s _very_ good graces—and his pants—Finn went all in and agreed to a hot shower.

“You’re wilting, darling,” Dorian was saying at present, grabbing a bottle of shampoo—some ridiculously expensive, herbal-infused concoction that kept his hair in perfect condition and was probably made with blood magic—and squeezing a glob of white gel into his palm.

“And you’re sexy,” Finn said, finding it a little difficult to breathe with all the steam in the bathroom.

He liked the pounding of shower water against his bare shoulders, though, and he liked to tilt his head just so, letting the water massage his frequently sore trapezius.  He did that now, closing his eyes and humming happily.

“Isn’t that your answer to everything?”  Dorian chuckled, audibly rubbing the shampoo around in his hands.  “Don’t mistake my questioning for _complaining,_ though.”

“I just like to tell you,” Finn said, cracking his eyes open.

His inclination would be to tackle Dorian—not literally, unless they really wanted to slip and crack their heads open—and start a makeout session with the assurance that it would obviously lead to sex, but that would be cheating.  Hawke had clearly stated he had to seduce Dorian _with bad puns._ And Finn staked his reputation on his honor, even if it meant upholding ridiculous terms.

Dorian wasn’t usually turned on by terrible jokes.  Amused, yes, but not aroused.  Still—joining him in the shower was a step in the right direction.  Already being naked probably made the odds a little better.

He watched Dorian soap up his hair, just letting the water drench his own.  It felt good, droplets drumming against the back of his skull.

“You should try this soap, _amatus,”_ Dorian said.  He was forever trying to get Finn to style his hair, which was normally a fluffed tumble of thick white waves that nearly reached his shoulders.  “Not that I don’t appreciate your hair as it is.  But it’s my duty to enforce a certain standard of hygiene.”

Finn winked, picking up the same bottle of expensive shampoo.  “I’ll give you a duty.”

Dorian cast him a suspicious look, probably wondering why Finn had suddenly complied.  “And what might that be?”

“Fork me,” Finn said, grabbing said utensil with the other hand and holding it up.

Dorian stared at him, _Stared_ with a capital S, for no less than ten seconds straight.

“You brought a fork into the shower,” he said.

“The sky is blue,” Finn said, in answer.

“Finn.”  The Tevene mage reached out to cup his bare shoulders, thumbs bumping over the ends of his  clavicles.  “As ‘forkable’ as you always are, I’m not entirely certain why the puns have to be thrown into the fray.”

“Because I loofah you?” Finn said, pointing at the mentioned showering implement.

“Sweet Maker.”  Dorian rolled his eyes, then leaned down to give Finn a quick kiss on the lips.  “The sentiment is cute, but I’m not sure it entirely answers the question.”

Well, the preferred method—the honest method that didn’t break Hawke’s imposed rule—didn’t seem to be working.  Time for Plan B.  What _was_ Plan B?  Did Finn even _have_ a Plan B?  Shite.

“I know,” Finn said.  Trying to brainstorm, he set the fork down outside the shower, then squeezed some of Dorian’s shampoo into his hands and set about scrubbing it into his hair.  It lathered between his fingers, feeling like a mound of frothy soap piled on his head.  Smelled nice, though; rather like mint and lemongrass.

It all had the effect of making Finn sleepy.  He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the shower’s stream slough the foaming shampoo out of his hair.

Or maybe that was the hot water’s doing.

As an ice mage, Finn had built up his tolerance to the cold quite thoroughly, but his heat tolerance left something to be desired.  At Josephine’s Satinalia dinner last year, he’d been trying to help her cook and had almost passed out from the heat radiating from the stove.  At the Wintersend party at Leliana’s house not long after, he’d burned his tongue on hot chocolate that Dorian had insisted was “not that hot.”

It _was,_ Finn had insisted, with a lump of burnt tongue in his mouth, _that hot._

“Finn.”  Dorian cupped his face in both hands and righted his head; Finn realized he’d closed his eyes and lolled his head back like his neck had suddenly lost all muscle capability.  “Don’t you think that isn’t the opportune place to take a nap?”

“Yeah,” Finn said with a lazy smile.  “Falling asleep in here would be a missed steak.”

“A mista—I’m not even going to correct you.  Nor point out the fact that you didn’t have a piece of steak locked and loaded for that pun.  Although I suppose I just did.”  Dorian reached behind Finn to shut the water off.  “Come along.  I can tell when you’re about to have a rather unfortunate siesta.”

“I’ll unfortunate _your_ siesta,” Finn said, winking.  He swayed a bit on his feet, barely able to see through the steam in the room—or was that because his eyes were closing against his will?

“That’s wonderful, love.”  Dorian apparently forfeited the notion of getting towels in favor of bending to hook an arm under Finn’s legs and scoop him up, the other arm curled around his back.  He stepped gracefully out of the shower, droplets of hot water plinking on the floor beneath them.

Finn sighed dreamily, plopping his head on Dorian’s shoulder and letting the other man carry him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.  He’d long since gotten used to the fact that Dorian _could_ carry him, and often was inclined to do so—those gorgeous muscles of his had to come in handy for something.  As the steam cleared, replaced by the untarnished air of the bedroom, Finn’s mind cleared as well; he was waking up some when Dorian plopped him on the bed, still dripping wet.

“I’m soaking the sheets,” Finn said, shifting onto his back and relaxing anyway.

Dorian snickered.  “I’m fairly certain we’ve done worse.”  He sat and combed a hand through Finn’s wet hair.  “I’m not entirely sure why you agreed to such a hot shower.  You know as well as I do that you can’t tolerate the heat.”

“I was…”  Shite.  Tell him about the bet, or _don’t_ tell him about the bet?  Quite the moral dilemma.

“You were…yes?  Normally you’re a tad more obstinate about the temperature.   Something on your mind?”

Oh no.  Duck and cover.  Stop drop and roll.  Perform evasive maneuvers.  Finn was an absolute shite liar, and he was fairly certain that caving and telling Dorian the nature of the bet would render the bet invalid.  Then he’d have to try to lie to Hawke, and he could only imagine how awfully that attempt would go. 

“Nothing on my mind,” he said.  “Nothing at all.  Nope.  Why would there be?  Thinking about things is stupid.  I don’t like thinking.  I’m brain-dead.  It’s true.  Don’t you start doubting me.  This relationship has to have _trust_ for it to work, Dorian.”

 _Nicely done, self,_ he thought wryly.  _What a beautiful lie you crafted there.  Truly a masterpiece._

“That was about as believable as the notion of Iron Bull being a skittish virgin, Oghren being sober, or Zevran making Chantry vows and becoming celibate.”  Dorian lifted an eyebrow—aristocratically, of course. 

Finn crossed his arms behind his head and blew a breath out through his mouth.  “I kind of maybe completely made a bet with Hawke.”

“Oh, no.”

“And she kind of maybe completely bet me that I couldn’t, er, get in your pants with the use of bad puns strictly involving household objects.”

“That Hawke woman is the mastermind behind every bad idea ever born.”  Dorian shook his head, laughed, and rested a hand on Finn’s bare, _vallaslin-_ covered chest.  “I might commend you for sticking so dutifully to your orders, though.  A most impressive feat.”

“Mm.”  Finn rested his hand on top of Dorian’s.  “I’m going to assume my chances at winning the bet just took a nosedive into solid zilch.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” Dorian said, bending down to kiss the back of the hand Finn had just put on top of his.  Then he extracted his hand and rose, disappearing into the bathroom and reappearing with a towel wrapped around his hips.  “Goodness knows I’m not about to sabotage the wager you two so thoughtfully put together.  But, for the moment—are you hungry?  I think you should eat something.”

Ah, right, because he’d nearly passed out in the shower like a complete loser.  Finn didn’t bother sitting up.  “Do we still have that bowl of strawberries in the fridge?  Oh, and a banana.”

Dorian’s perpetually raised eyebrow arched even higher, but he briefly left the room, retrieving the fruits.  He seemed skeptical about Finn’s entire existence when he brought back a bowl of sugared strawberries and a single unpeeled banana.

“Thanks,” Finn said, sitting up and taking the proffered bowl of strawberries.  He bit into one, savoring the burst of sweet juices on his tongue.

Dorian watched him, still skeptical.

“So, Dorian…”  Finn eyed the half-eaten strawberry in his fingers.  “I’d like to…report a strobbery.”

Dorian _almost_ groaned.  Finn saw it about to happen, saw him swallow it down when he glanced at the strawberry Finn held.  “Alright.  And what is the nature of this strobbery?”

“You stole my heart,” Finn said.

Someone might as well have doused the room in melted mozzarella—it was _that_ cheesy.

Dorian breathed a quick breath of a laugh through his nose, then leaned forward to kiss Finn’s forehead.  “I’ll admit, you’re being quite adorable even while you fry my mind with atrocious puns.”

Finn grinned, eating the strawberry before trying anything else.  He licked his fingers when he was done, sucked on the last bits of juice, then reached for the banana.  “Would you say you find me…”  He held up the banana.  “…a-peel-ing?”

In one decently swift motion, Dorian grabbed the banana, chucked it across the room, and pinned Finn to the mattress.  Finn barely caught a breath before the other man was kissing him, lowering himself to press their bodies flush together.

“Mmmph.”  Finn made a soft hum of approval and turned his head—to breathe, then talk.  He shifted his legs, crooking them so Dorian’s weight rested between his thighs.  “Did that actually…?”

“You have my permission to inform Hawke your atrocious puns aroused me.”  Dorian punctuated the statement by dropping his head to the crook of Finn’s neck and kissing him roughly there.

Finn thought about that for a second.

Then decided thinking was stupid right now—there was something _much_ better to be doing.

* * *

The next day, Finn lucked out and found River Hawke grabbing lunch at one of the local cafés with Isabela.

It was one of those cafes with a noticeable island theme, complete with painted wooden palm fronds decorating the posts of the outdoor patio at the side of the restaurant, waiters wearing loose, button-down shirts with tacky flower prints, and ukulele music playing over the loudspeakers.  The soft scent of plumeria lingered around the building, probably made by air freshener in the vents or whatnot.  

He reassured the woman at the front podium that he was meeting a friend within the café and wouldn’t stay long or need personal services.  Then he made his way to Hawke’s table, serpentining through a maze of seats and bustling waiters.

“And you won’t _believe_ what I heard the other day,” Isabela was in the process of saying, tracing patterns in the frosted mist on her glass of what looked like a piña colada.  “Apparently coconut oil can be used as a—”

“Hey!  Sorry to interrupt,” Finn greeted, stopping at the side of the table.

“Hey, you,” Hawke greeted, just as Isabela said, “always nice to see _you,_ sweet thing,” accompanied by a hand lightly swatting Finn’s arse.  Isabela was one of those chronic arse-grabbers; if she _didn’t_ greet you by touching your rear, you knew you were in bad standings.

“I won’t stay long,” Finn promised.  Hawke turned curious peacock-green eyes up at him.  “I just wanted to let you know that I won your bet and I expect some form of winner’s purse.”

Hawke’s jaw dropped.

“What bet?”  Isabela immediately looked intrigued.  “ _Hawke._ You made a bet and didn’t tell me about it?”

“It was only yesterday!” Hawke protested.  “How—”

Finn snickered.  “You underestimate me.”

Hawke tried to take a drink of ice water, sputtered, and failed.  Her swallow was loud and looked awkwardly done.  “Here’s the thing, Finn—I hadn’t actually decided what I would give you if you won.  Because I was completely convinced Dorian would never respond to an onslaught of bad puns.  I mean, I don’t know the details, but…shit.”

“Tell you what.”  Finn leaned on one hip.  “You don’t have to pay me anything— _if_ you can accomplish the same thing with Fenris.”

Isabela burst into rather contagious laughter—Finn almost joined in.

“Oh, bollocks,” Hawke said.  “Fuck on a stick.  Maker’s gilded underwear.  I think I have no choice but to accept.”  She buried her head in her hands in a gesture of mock anguish.  “Fenris is going to murder me alive.”

“Well,” Finn said, “I’m looking forward to hearing about your results.”

And with that, he left the table, finally allowing himself to snicker as he wove his way out of the café.


End file.
